


The Beast of North Mountain

by HerbalMaiden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A/U, F/M, Sandor isn't scarred, Sansa is a beast, beauty and the beast themed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-12-29 18:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12090534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerbalMaiden/pseuds/HerbalMaiden
Summary: Sandor Clegane is a nameless tournament knight supporting his sister and mother. With a fresh start in the North, Sandor's wild sister takes a wrong turn that leads him on the one challenge he never looked to: love.





	1. The Hound

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any characters, plot, settings, etc that belong to the world of ASoIaF/GoT. There is only one god, and his name is G.R.R. Martin. 
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to read! Reviews are love. This will be a shorter story, just an idea that's been irking me for a while.

Sandor Clegane was the eldest of three siblings, the responsible one, the bigger man. Despite the cruelty of his drunken father and the monster his younger brother had become, Sandor had followed the path his mother inspired, those stories of chivalrous knights who rescued fair maidens, assisted the elderly, and championed for good. 

At the age of fourteen, Sandor's father had drunk himself to an early grave. A giant of a man, the drink and an ill-fated tavern brawl had lead to the man's corpse arriving via a mule cart at the door of their humble home. Sandor had become the head of the family. Gregor, his twelve year old brother, was quickly reaching him in size. His sister was but five years old, hopefully too young to remember the abuse they had endured. 

Their mother had been heavily weakened by Elina's birth and she was unable to provide for her children, save for the bits of clothing repair she took in for their closer neighbors. Sandor had taken his role with the utmost honor. Already a squire at the time of his father's death, the eldest son took his breadth and height to his advantage and began entering the lists as a silent champion, soon to be known as simply the Hound.

The tournaments started close to home, minor southern affairs that would take him less than a day's ride from the small village. He had won and lost some in the beginning. But as Sandor grew and he found more experienced knights to fight, his talent hit a soaring point without plateau. Sandor was a fine jouster, that won him silvers at first. Then came the melees of the larger tournaments, where standing in dented armor he remained the last standing. The years passed and Sandor found himself traveling further from home, bringing back more and more gold. He was known only by the hound shaped helm he wore to compete - the name Clegane still frowned upon in most of the South. 

Eventually, Sandor had saved enough money to buy his mother and sister a fine home in the North, where the name Clegane meant nothing. The last years had been a struggle for his family, as his brother had grown and taken after their father. Gregor had been prone to outbursts and fits of violence. Sandor had tried to quash the instinct in him, training him in his spare time as they counted coins each month for the rental of the house they resided, to put food they were unable to grow on the table. That was until Sandor came home one day to find Gregor's massive hands around his sister's throat. He'd pulled the boy off in time and tossed him into the winter night, and banished him from their home. But that had not been enough, it seemed, to keep the Clegane's safe from further scrutiny. 

Gregor had become an outlaw of the worst degree, a band of ruthless followers magnetized to his cruelty and intimidating bulk. He flaunted his name with egotistical notoriety. Rape, thievery, murder were the whispered rumors that flew from town to town. And Sandor stood it no longer. 

With a cart and his horse, Warrior, Sandor packed his mother and sister and the few belongings they had. They left the only home they had ever known on a crisp autumn dawn for the mountains to the North. 

It did not take long for Sandor to settle his sister and mother in the small stone house they had bought outright with a meager portion of his winnings. The North had no use for knights, of which Sandor was not if only by title, so he sold his blade to a local Innkeeper to keep peace at night when the tavern filled and the ale flowed. He kept the house and small farm during the day, while his mother taught Elina to read and write, and sing songs that had always inspired Sandor to be the men his father and brother were incapable of being. 

Sandor returned in the late night of his nameday, surprised to find his mother waiting at the kitchen table for him next to a roaring hearth. He could smell his favorite stew wafting through the air. Elina's soft snores could be heard from her room. 

His mother patted the seat beside her in welcome. 

"Twenty-one name days, Sandor," she rasped, her voice weaker each day. "You are a handsome man, stronger and kinder than any man has right to be. Should it not be time to find a wife?" 

Sandor smiled easily at her. His naturally sullen face of sharp angles and a prominent nose lit up as he exposed his straight white teeth in a grin that reached the corners of his eyes in a crinkle. Despite all the hardships and trials he had endured to allow himself and his family to survive, he was quick to laugh and nearly always had a bounce to his step. 

"You and Elina are my family," he assured her. "What more do I need? We have a fine home, and we never have to endure summer heat," he teased as he gently squeezed her hand. 

She smiled back at him. "You deserve a wife to love you, children of your own. Elina will marry one day, and I will always be your mother." 

Sandor laughed loudly. "Elina is a wild one. I'll praise the man who manages to tame her."

Sandor's mother sighed with mock exasperation. "All those years you wore that awful helm, and you couldn't find a tournament for a princess's hand?"

"I certainly have no need for a princess," Sandor chuckled. "Just a village girl, preferably with red hair and blue eyes." 

"I'll keep my eyes peeled." She stood up and leaned on the table for a moment before brushing Sandor's thick black hair with her lips. "Happy Nameday, Sandor. May the gods bless your selfless soul." 

Sandor ate his fill of the venison stew, thick with extra potatoes as he liked. The slight oversalted broth gave testament to Elina's "help" in the kitchen affairs. He left more than enough over the dying embers for his sister and mother to partake. Dawn broke over the mountain top as he laid himself to sleep. 

****

"Sandor!" rasped in his ear, causing him to bolt upright in his bed, the furs already crumpled aside as he had tossed and turned from the howling that never failed to call down from the mountain. "She's gone!" his mother frantically continued as he wiped sleep from his eyes. 

"Elina?" 

"Who else?" she cried. "She had left this morning, going on and on about the wolf songs as she readied for the market. The tales these locals tell of the beast on the mountain!" 

"I've heard them a time or two," he replied, waiting for her to calm as he pulled on his socks and boots to ward off the cold floor. "What of it?" 

His mother thrust a worn piece of parchment in his hands. The ink was blotchy with haste, sloppy as always for Elina. 

"I sent her to the market this morning, and you know the rule! She's to be home by dusk," Sandor nodded in agreement. He had made the rule. "She still isn't home. And I found this in my sewing basket this afternoon." 

'Don't worry, Mother, and don't bother Sandor! Off to find his nameday gift, one fit for the Hound.  --- Elina' 

At age twelve, Elina was a capable girl. Sandor had taught her well when it came to the wilderness and hunting, but she often tried to do things beyond her teachings, always trying to surpass Sandor in the timeless competition of siblings. He fingered the note gently before he set it on his desk and strode into the main room of the home. He had an idea of what Elina intended to bring him, and it was utter madness. A wolf pup. He had spoken of getting hounds for them to breed, good hunting dogs for the people of the North. But a wolf was another matter entirely. 

He slung his thick cloak over his shoulders and strapped his familiar weapons to his person before turning to his mother. She had sunken into her rocking chair, her fingers tight in her lap. Sandor knelt with ease in front of her, and held her white-knuckled hands within her own. 

"I have some idea where she went," he assured her. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Wood is stocked already, and there is stew left for supper. You'll take care of yourself while I'm away." Although his voice was always tender, the deep resonance and wording brooked no question. It was a command. 

Sandor's frail mother nodded. "Of course. Please, please find her." 

Sandor nodded before he rose, dipping low to hug his mother gently in farewell. 

When he stepped outside to saddle Warrior in his stable, he was shocked to find his mother had let him sleep the day away. The sky was deep red with the sun slipped low beyond horizon. He pondered where to start as he saddled his faithful companion. The stabled locked and he comfortable on Warrior's back, he looked to the sky where the North star twinkled innocently at him. It wasn't until he and Warrior were well onto the trail head that he noticed the wolves no longer howled. 


	2. Elina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elina's fateful journey up the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again: reviews are love! 
> 
> There is only one God and his name is George R.R. Martin. I own nothing of his. This is not for profit, pure guilty pleasure.

Elina cradled one of the wolf pups in her arms. It was not simply a wolf pup, but a direwolf pup. The creature was but a babe, its eyes a shocking blue that stood out sharply against its charcoal grey coat. 

It had not taken long to find the trail that lead higher and higher upon the haunted mountain, where the howling never ended and the snows never ceased. Elina had bundled herself in her sturdiest winter clothes and taken the knife Sandor had gifted her on her last nameday. A bow and quiver were slung familiarly across her back. 

The sky had become darker the further north she traveled. To the point where she could no longer differentiate the howls of forceful winds or ever closer wolves, Elina had trudged forward with determination. She knew her mother would find her note and be overcome with worry. Sandor would be furiously disappointed in her recklessness. But Elina had hoped the direwolf pup would put a damper on his anger. 

Her hands ruffled the scruff of the pup’s neck gently. Elina imagined the massive wolfhounds her brother would breed and smiled at the thought of him no longer having to work nights with the drunks he so despised. Though she knew part of that unprovoked hatred was a deep sadness that he strove to hide from her and mother. 

If she ever made it home with the pup that was. 

Elina hadn’t believed half the lore the locals told. She certainly hadn’t believed the song of a great abandoned castle high on the mountain side, a part of the natural rock formation. That was until she had reached its gates. 

Massive stone wolves lined the battlements, and the iron gates were wrought in their image, snarling at possible intruders. Despite its threatening figures, the gates had remained wide open, growling against its hinges as a breeze drifted past.

Elina had tried to imagine what Sandor would have done at such a fearsome entrance. The Hound was no coward, and she was as much as hound as he. 

A brief assessment, and Elina had straightened her shoulders and marched past the stone wolves. She had placed her feet carefully over the ice-slicked stone walk. Knowing the castle existed, Elina briefly wondered if a princess had truly frozen to her weirwood throne within the halls. The Stark Kings and Queens had been gone for centuries, mere legends in the grand scheme of history. 

But as she had continued on, Elina noticed the neatly maintained grounds, suggesting someone must live here. She would not steal from the owner. Brave and mostly courteous like her brother, she had intended fully to ask and pay for a wolf pup. The pouch of coin weighed comfortingly at her hip. She had saved her allowances for years for a moment such as this. 

Though she had intended to knock on the great front doors, the sound of whimpering stilled Elina’s fisted hand. She looked back once at the great white weirwood doors, tinged with the red of long dried sap. The carved scenes were intricate and eerie, but Elina did not feel remorse to follow the wolf cries instead. 

Another winded trail, farther up the mountain side had lead Elina to a less grand set of gates. More stone and iron wolves silently snarled at her. The gates entrance had been left open much to her delight. Within the gates was a sheltered wood, where no greenery was seen. Weirwood trees of every sized filled the seemingly endless space, where the stone walls vanished behind the thick wood. 

Elina had lifted up her boots high between steps. The snow was deep and thick, and it had threatened to pull her boots from her stocking feet. It did not take long for her to narrow the whimpering to the raised snarling roots of a gargantuan tree. Six pups were nestled amongst each other. Elina had been unable to stop her hands from gently lifting the darkest and largest of the litter from its comfort. A smile from ear to ear, she had tucked the wolf into the safety of the satchel she had carried just for this purpose. 

Elina had been prepared to approach the owners of the enchanted place. Or so she had thought. 

When she returned to the iron gates, they had been closed, not to budge against all her attempts. The lock had encased itself in a block of ice that refused to be scratched or chipped no matter how many times she brought her blade down on it. 

Resolute in finding the owner, Elina had looked to climb the walls that encased the weirwood forest. But the stones seemed to have grown taller in the time she had searched for the wolf pups. The walls were easily four times the height of her giant brother. The weirwoods that may have reached the stone wolves that topped the walls were in the center of the wood, leaving only saplings at the borders. 

Undeterred, Elina had thought she could build a ladder. But she tossed the idea aside nearly as quickly as it had come to her mind. Though her mother followed the faith of the Seven and her brother seemingly believed in no Gods, Elina had taken to the traditions and beliefs of the North with ease. It was a great sin to cut down a weirwood, gods in the eyes of the Northern people. And as she had studied her surroundings, she noticed every single tree was carved meticulously with a face. Some were old and lined with heavy sap, creating bloody tears and mouths. Others looked as freshly cut as yesterday. 

She had approached the gate once more, only this time Elina faced a most a startling sight.

Elina had thought it a wolf at first, with its paws against the iron bars. But in the dim winter dusk, it had taken her a moment to recognize the tattered remains of a dress it bore. And it had not been paws against the iron, but furred hands. The fingers were long and thin, and white claws extended from them to undoubtedly sharp tips. Its face was long and pointed, a pink snout emitted puffs of air into the cold. Elina hadn’t failed to notice the sharp white teeth that slipped past its closed lips in sheer length. Pointed ears protruded amongst the deeply red hued fur that fully encompassed the creature. And its blue eyes had been trained on Elina with a mixture of distaste and acute curiosity. 

“You are a thief,” it had accused her with a surprisingly human voice, laced with a low growl. The creature seemed to be female the more Elina had observed. “And now you must pay my price.” 

Elina had shaken her head. Her gloved hand had swiftly untied the coin purse from its loop. She had not even managed to push it toward the gates before a snarl stopped her.

“What need have I for metal coins?” she barked. Elina was briefly reminded of her brother’s booming laughter, short rough spurts of sound strung together. 

“I intended to pay you,” Elina had tried to explain. “I only wanted a nameday gift for my brother.”

Her excuse had given the creature pause. “What need does a man have of a wolf?”

Elina had smiled despite her precarious situation. “He is a Hound. And so am I.”

“You don’t look a hound,” she had sniffed haughtily back. “But if you speak true – “

“A Hound never lies,” Elina had retorted sharply.

The beast narrowed her eyes at the interruption. “Then you should live happily amongst my direwolves,” she had growled at Elina. “This is their home, and my pets are well cared for.”

 

Elina’s hands had wrapped around the cold iron bars. “But what is y our price if you won’t accept my gold?”

 

The wolfwoman’s lips pulled back in a gruesome smile, exposing more pearly teeth in the light of the rising moon. “The price was not for my wolf, but your thieving ways. And for that, you will remain here, a hound amongst wolves.” The animal’s eyes had twinkled as she spoke with a queer sort of merriment. “After all, hounds and wolves are not so different.”

 

Elina had swallowed hard. “My mother will worry.”

 

“You might have thought of your mother’s heart before you traveled so far from her bosom to trespass on my home,” the creature replied as it began to turn away. 

 

“My brother will come for me,” Elina had threatened in her moment of fear. 

 

The wolfwoman had paused and glanced over her shoulder. “So be it. I look forward to meeting this hound.” She snapped her teeth in a moment of bitterness. “Perhaps he will show more courtesy than you and choose to knock on the door.”

 

Elina had pulled her hands away, defeated for the moment. The wolfwoman walked further, letting out a long sweet howl that blended with the wind. She was responded to at least a hundredfold by her brothers and sisters of tooth and fur. Elina had wondered how many wolves were in the wood with her. 

Darkness had settled long ago, and Elina remained in the weirwood roots in which she ‘d found the pups. Indeed, she had become a hound amongst wolves. Elina patted the dark wolf pup and refused to cry. 

Sandor would come for her.


	3. The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beast has a heart and Elina continues her stay on the North Mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love!
> 
> I own nothing belong to his Grace: George R.R. Martin. I purely do this for guilty pleasure, no profit!

The Beast once had a name. Sometimes, when the howls quieted and the stars glittered through streams of moonlit snow, she could nearly feel it on the tip of her tongue. It was on the verge of becoming extinct. No one had spoken to her for many centuries. There were Starks no longer in the world, a breed now down to the last. In her dreams, the Beast remembered exactly why she had become the creature she remained. In those times, her chest pounded when she woke and she felt a shame she had long forgotten.

Most trespassers decided against intruding at the sight of her gates. Those who didn’t the Beast would scare off with a member of her direwolf family via warging. If in a foul enough mood, the Beast would pay a visit to the gates herself. Over the years, her home had been forgotten by locals, and those who visited were either genuinely lost, or young men come to prove their bravery, what little they had of it. The Beast was made of sterner material. 

But the Beast had watched through the stone eyes of her gate wolves and had been mildly surprised to find a young girl at the entrance. Her attire and practical survival items suggested she had not come on a dare, nor was she lost in the mountainous terrain. The scenes of strung carcasses of enemies hanging from weirwood branches carved into the main doors had done nothing to deter the child either.

The Beast had felt a curiosity rise in her, and she had left the confines of the castle to observe from the shadows. The girl stepped with a precision that the Beast snorted at. The child walked like a southern fool on ice. But once accustomed to the stone path, she had moved swiftly to the sanctuary where the direwolves kept their young. 

The Beast had not been pleased when the girl lifted the pup. Her displeasure morphed to unbridled fury when the child placed the wolf into her bag. With her raging blood that flowed through the grounds of her ancestral home, the gates closed and sealed themselves once more and the walls grew from the frozen earth to tower the Godswood. 

With a perverse joy, the Beast watched as the girl struggled with the gates and saw the prison the Godswood had become. As she smelled the faintest whiff of fear on the breeze, the Beast moved to the gates and waited for her trespasser to notice. 

The Beast reclined in weirwood throne and recalled the conversation that had followed. What humans called themselves hounds? Not only called themselves hounds, but had the gull to threaten the likes of her? In her very own home? Curiosity peaked in her once more. The Beast snorted to herself and saw the snow fall more heavily through the paned windows. A hound without fur, the girl would fare for only a short time in the harsh cold of the Godswood. 

The gates of the Godswood melted its icy lock and swung open with a creak. The Beast strode in with a purpose, her paw prints light on the snow. The girl was not entirely a fool. She had tucked herself amongst the pups within the shelter of a weirwood to conserve what heat she had. 

 

“Come,” the Beast barked impatiently. 

 

The girl blinked her frozen lashes and held the Beast’s gaze with a stubborn intensity before she rose stiffly. She had begun to set the dark pup down amongst its litter mates. 

 

“Bring the pup with you,” the Beast growled. “You’ve come all this way for it after all.”

 

The girl barely kept up with the Beast as she stalked from the wood toward the castle. 

 

“Will you let me return home?” the girl asked, as she jogged to keep in step. “I’ll pay you still, I’ll work in exchange for the pup – “

 

The Beast rounded on the child as they approached the open doors to the entrance hall. “I promised no such thing, and a few hours’ time has not changed the uselessness of coinage for me.” She grabbed the collar of the girl’s shirt and pulled her into the warmth, the fires lit in every hearth. The doors slammed behind them. “What good is a dead hairless hound to me?” 

 

The girl yanked herself away and cradled the pup in her arms securely. “I have a name,” she declared sharply. 

“My wolves have no names spoken by human mouths, why should a dog?” 

“A hound,” the girl growled right back at her. “And you may call me Elina.” 

“So be it,” the Beast replied. “The castle is yours to roam. You will find no exit, so do not waste your efforts. Meals are served at seven, noon, and six in the dining hall. The direwolf is yours to care for.” She continued to move toward the throne room, the girl on her tail once more. She strode up to her weirwood seat and sat with a flourish, belying her wolfish appearance. She waved her hand in dismissal. “Find yourself a room, with the exception of the North tower. Those are my quarters. Go.”

The girl did not budge. “My brother, The Hound, he will come for me still.” 

 

The Beast pulled her lips back in a feral grin. “As I told you before, I look forward to meeting him.” 

 

“You won’t hurt him, will you?” the girl breathed out, showing her youthful worry.

 

“Only if he gives me just reason.” The Beast retorted. “Now go, I tire of you.” 

 

The girl hesitated before she turned on her heel and briskly walked away. 

 

The Beast knew the child could not hide from her within these walls. She looked forward to breakfast. It had been a long time since she’d used the human’s common tongue, and the girl spoke it well, despite her brash tones toward her. 

*******

Breakfast was on the table. The wolves hunted for her mostly, and the Beast cooked the food herself. The glass gardens provided what meager vegetables and fruits she enjoyed, though mostly meat satisfied her cravings. Sometimes she would hold a ripe lemon in hand and could remember confections made of it, sweet and tart in a single bite. But the Beast no longer knew how to make such things. 

 

“You’re late,” she snarled at the girl. 

 

Elina padded forward in her thick woolen socks and the direwolf pup trotted with the uncoordinated grace of babes. Her dress was crumpled from being slept in. “My apologies –“ The girl paused mid-sentence. “What should I call you?” 

 

“Men call me Beast.”

 

“I’m not a man,” the girl replied firmly. “And Beast is not a name.” 

 

“The years have stolen my name from me,” the Beast insisted. “Call me what you will.” 

 

The girl picked up a piece of bacon and slipped it to the pup. “I shall think on it.” 

 

“So be it,” the Beast replied. “Your attire is unacceptable. There are clothes that would fit you in the western wing.”

 

The girl’s spoonful of porridge stopped midway to her mouth. “My clothes? What about your – “ 

 

“Finish your meal and do as your told, Elina,” the Beast intoned, brooking no argument. Elina was heavily reminded of her brother’s voice when he had tired of her antics after a long day. 

 

“Yes,” she replied sullenly. 

 

The rest of the meal endured uncomfortably in silence. Once the plates were clean of food, the Beast wiped her muzzle with the delicacy of a lady. 

 

“I apologize for my shortness,” the Beast told the girl serenely. “I have had only the company of my wolves for too long. But with you here, perhaps I will have a new purpose.” She opened her mouth as if to say more, but her teeth closed with an audible snap. 

 

“Perhaps,” Elina agreed. 

 

The girl’s words were obedient enough, but the Beast was no imbecile. She sensed the tension in the air, and Elina’s silent rebellion.


	4. Elina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love!
> 
> I own nothing that is recognized from the works of the great G.R.R. Martin. I do this for pleasure, not money. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Elina had been at the Beast’s hidden castle for nearly a week, and still Sandor had not found her. The Beast had started doing small things for her, laying out gowns on the bed she had chosen for herself, leaving snacks on her bedside table between meals. And above all, the Beast had left books for her, songs and stories and fables, histories and mathematics. Elina devoured them all. 

Despite the small comforts the wolfwoman had bestowed, Elina and she had never crossed paths beyond the dining hall. She endured her meals with as little surliness as she could while remaining a prisoner. And the Beast remained silent…mostly. 

In a fine woolen gown that must have dated to the Long Night by Elina’s youthful judgement, she sat for dinner in the dining hall, much too large for only two. Three if you counted the wolf pup that she had named Night after learning her companion slept all day. 

“I thought your hound brother would be here by now,” the Beast taunted. “Perhaps the snow has claimed him like so many others.”

Elina could not hold back her glare. “He will come. He is stronger and braver than any other man and known all through the South for his strength and size.”

“Is that so?” the Beast questioned gently. “Is he a giant?”

Elina chewed the piece of beef in her mouth. “I’ve heard men claim he has giant’s blood. He stands a foot above all others at least, near seven feet tall.” She spoke around her mouthful of food. “My mother says perhaps his intimidating height and nature have kept him from marrying.” 

The Beast leaned back in her seat and placed her clawed hands on the pristine table cloth. “Could be so. I would not know. I’ve never married, you see. Nor have I met any man worthy of intimidating me.” 

“He will,” Elina insisted after a gulp of heavily watered arbor gold. Her brother never allowed drink in the house, and her mother had no want of it. She unwillingly felt a princess in her elaborately embroidered clothes and precious gold cutlery in her hands. “When he laughs he smiles, and he doesn’t look so sullen. The other villagers speak to him little because he only speaks when he needs to.” She took a bite of bread and nearly swallowed it whole. “Except with me and mother. He laughs quite a bit at home, and I think he’s been happier since we’ve left the South.” 

The Beast snorted in response. “The South is a terribly pompous place. Not a place for wolves in the least.”

“Lions and roses, really,” Elina shrugged her agreement. “Snakes when you go further. Sandor- “ 

“Is that your brother’s name?” The Beast asked, her claws tapped a rhythm on the arm rest of her chair at the head of the long table. 

Elina paused. “Yes. It is.”

“A strong name for a supposedly strong man,” the Beast idly mulled. “A Northern name, did you know that?” She stopped her tapping. “I wish I could recall the book, but these things escape me.” 

“Is the book here?” Elina grasped at straws for a neutral subject. She sensed she had told the Beast too much of her brother.

“The maester’s tower most likely,” the Beast blinked after a moment. She often had moments where she appeared lost in thought, her eyes sheened without focus. “The smaller of the two eastern towers if you wish to explore it tomorrow. I won’t stop you.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It had not been forbidden to you prior, you have nothing to thank me for.”

“I appreciate your gifts,” Elina tried again.

“It isn’t a gift if it is what I already had to spare,” the Beast brushed aside. 

She stood abruptly, her ragged dress allowing a peek of the tail Elina had noticed earlier, though she had yet to see the wolfwoman move on all four limbs. Her paws made not a sound on the polished stone floors. 

“Why are you being kind to me? I am your prisoner, am I not?” 

The wolfwoman turned up her nose at the accusation. “I told you, my pets are well cared for. A hairless hound has more needs than my wolves. Wolves can care for themselves, hounds not so much it would seem.” 

With that, the Beast strode from the room. Elina knew she would not see her until the next morning for breakfast. She roughly shoved her chair back from the table, startling poor Night from his bowl of meat and broth. 

Elina took pride that she did not shed tears, not since that day Gregor had tried to strangle her that is. She had tucked that memory deep within her. She knew to remember such a thing would torment Sandor to no end, and she refused to be her brother’s cause of grief. But Elina realized she was causing Sandor and their mother grief that very moment, for the last week truth be told. 

She scooped Night into her arms and made her way to the room she had claimed as hers. Ashamed of her actions, part of Elina prayed Sandor would move on and forget her. She did not wish her brother harm in the woods, especially harm from the Beast. Her brother was more selfless than any person she had ever met. He sacrificed everything he had, including his wellbeing, to ensure she and her mother lived a safe and comfortable life. 

Elina had pretended to snore and sleep the early morning of Sandor’s nameday. She had heard the conversation between he and their mother. Were they truly the reason Sandor had not made a life for himself alone? Why he did not have a woman and children of his own to love? Elina loathed the thought. She had always thought her brother a handsome man, if not a bit on the plain side. Any woman would be lucky to have a man such as him if they took the chance to know him. 

Elina laid down on the large bed with silken sheets. She pulled Night beneath her chin, where he licked her neck and face with the abandon only a puppy could have. Too tired with the guilt that had finally fallen upon her narrow shoulders, she didn’t bother to take off the dress or slippers before she closed her eyes and took comfort in the warm body in her arms. 

Sandor had told mother he wanted a woman of red hair and blue eyes. She recalled sleepily. Images of the Beast followed her line of thought before a dreamless rest overcame Elina. 

****************************

Elina woke to the sound of hundreds of wolves howling in unison. It was nothing like the distant howling she and villagers heard from down the mountain side. Daylight was barely peeking from beyond the horizon, and even sweet young Night had joined his voice to the wolfsong. 

Without a care to her knotted bedraggled hair or wrinkled finery, she scooped up the small wolf and rushed down the stairwell of the Western tower until she followed the loudest of the howls to the throne room.

Elina’s eyes first landed on the Beast, perched upon her weirwood throne with her posture no less perfect than that of a queen. 

Standing at the foot of her dais, was an impossibly tall man. His long black hair was pulled back with a strap of leather. Elina didn’t hesitate as she gently set Night to the floor and launched herself into his side, her arms unable to wrap around his armored bulk. Sandor’s grey eyes met hers, she could see anger there, but it was obscured by a flood of relief.

“I told you she was well,” the Beast assured him as his arms wrapped around her, making it hard for her to breath. “I treat her as well as my beloved wolves, truth be told.” 

Sandor loosened his hold on her to look back at the Beast. “She is not yours to keep.” 

The Beast stood and walked down the stairs toward the siblings. “I am queen of this castle, and I take thievery with the utmost seriousness. She tried to steal one of my children – “ 

Elina looked sharply at Sandor. “It isn’t so! I offered to pay her gold, to even work in exchange. It was a great misunderstanding, Sandor.” 

“My sister is too good to steal,” Sandor argued in her favor, his large hand squeezed her shoulder gently. “Surely we can handle this matter in another way.” 

The Beast snarled. “This is my kingdom and justice is done by my means. My price was her life, here, with me.”

Sandor breathed sharply through his nose. “She is but a girl. She cannot be raised amongst wolves.” He gently brushed past Elina and tugged his great hounds helm from his satchel. He tossed the metal to the Beast’s feet with a loud clang. “She may be a hound by sharing my blood, but I am The Hound. There is but one of me.” 

The Beast paused and looked at the helm with thought. “You offer yourself in her stead?” 

The Hound stepped toe to toe with the Beast, towering the wolfwoman in his shadow as dawn spilled through the stained glass windows. 

“Yes. My life for hers.” 

“No!” Elina tried to intervene, tugging at his hand. “You won’t pay for my mistake.”

“Hush, Elina!” he snarled lowly at her. “Is that acceptable to you?” he asked the Beast.

“I accept,” the Beast relented after a moment of thought. “I’ll give you a moment for your farewells.” She reached out her furred hand and gently brushed the girl’s cheek with the back of her claws. “Your company was valued while I had it. Take Night with you.” 

Elina wanted to scream and thrash the Beast, but Sandor pulled her aside before she could respond. He knelt before her, still taller her than by far. Both of his hands on her shoulders grounded her. She fought the tears she felt welling in her eyes. 

“Listen to me, Elina,” he rasped, no anger to be sensed. “You and Mother have more than enough coin to last a life time. I’ve buried it beneath the floor boards in my room by the southern window. Take what you need. Your dowry is there as well when the day comes.” He turned away for a moment, and she saw Night pawing at his leg. He smiled lightly. “Was this to be my nameday gift? He’d have made a fine start to our wolfhound pack.” 

Elina nodded despite herself. “Please don’t do this. You could go back now. You could find a wife and have children. I don’t mind staying. I don’t!” 

Sandor shook his head gently. “No, Elina. You have your entire life ahead of you. You’ll care for mother and start the kennel as we intended. Night will guide you. You will never struggle as I did, and for that, I could not be happier or more pleased.” He stood straight and patted her mussed hair, before pressing Night into her arms. “Warrior is out front. He knows the way now, as well as you should. Take Night and go.”

Elina whimpered, a tear slipped down her cheek. “I love you, Sandor.” 

“And I you. Tell Mother I send my love.” 

The Beast huffed impatiently. “Time for you to go, Elina. Good bye” 

“It isn’t too late,” Elina whispered up at him as he escorted her to the main doors. 

Sandor kissed her head and gave her a gentle push onto the snowy threshold. The great weirwood doors shut, separating Elina from the only true hero she had known.


	5. The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beast has a new hound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing of the Great G.R.R. Martin. Reviews are love!

The Beast

The Beast looked upon the Hound. His back was turned to her as he faced the closed weirwood doors. Elina had left long moments prior, beyond the Beast’s gate wolves and vision.

“I hope your company parallels your sister’s,” she spoke aloud. He turned on his heel to face her fully.

Despite the fact Elina’s assessment had been correct and he towered over her as few men ever had, the Hound did not turn away from her wolf face and held her gaze. She turned up her nose at his distinct glare. 

“What are you?” he asked bluntly. 

The Beast cocked her head to the side at his rudeness. “A direwolf, a monster, a queen, the Last Stark. Choose what you will.” She could see the muscle of his jaw worked as he ground his teeth together. “And you? Another hairless hound?” She stepped forward and eyed his chain mail and worn armor. His helm still laid at the foot of her throne. “Your sister preferred I use her given name. And you?”

“I am your prisoner,” he grounded out. “I suppose that’s for you to decide.” 

“I suppose it is,” she snapped. Her patience wore thin, and she felt a tug in her chest, something she would have recognized in herself long ago, but now was foreign to her. “Your terms will be as they were for Elina. The castle and Godswood are yours to roam, bother not to seek escape. My eyes are all around. Meals are served in the dining hall at seven, noon, and six.” She ignored the scowl plastered on his face. “Choose any room, with the exception of the North Tower. Those are mine.” She turned to walk away, but a thought occurred to her. “Though I hadn’t intended it, I’ll grant you choice of a pup from the Godswood. A Hound may find need of an ally amongst wolves.” 

The Hound did not respond to her, but yanked open the doors and strode into the brewing snow storm. 

The Beast wondered if he would take advantage of her generous offer. He was only another pet after all – a pet whose needs she would need to determine at some point. 

She walked leisurely back to her throne and lifted them helm with both hands. The metal teeth were finely pointed, a weapon in their own right. One ear was missing its tip, while other scratches, deep and shallow, decorated the rest. It was no wolf, nor was the Hound himself. But she rather liked the helm. She carried it against her side as she trekked toward the North Tower. She’d find a place for it amongst her prized belongings. After all, what need would the Hound have for his armor now?

 

The Beast waited at the head of the table for the midday meal to commence. She had chosen not to spy upon the Hound in his first few hours. Mostly, she wanted to see if was nearly as pliable as the other hairless hound had been. 

But the stew had long stopped steaming and impatience and anger welled up in the Beast. She would find him and bring him to heel. A dog was no wolf, and certainly could be tamed. 

With a snarl, she pushed her chair back and strode through the castle and out to the Godswood. The snows were coming down steadily. She could hear the familiar sounds of pups, and further away she could hear the older wolves amongst one another, some rough housing, others curled in their dens, bellies sated for the time being. 

It had not taken long to find the Hound. He was still armored, and he sat upon a fallen tree. 

“I expect you to arrive promptly for meals,” she snarled, her anger still on the surface. 

The Hound looked up at her. Her snarls and bared teeth did not cause him to cower with fear, nor turn away in disgust. His eyes were hard as steel and he rose to his feet. Only then did she see the red pup in the crook of his arm. 

“Your grace,” he growled, and he brushed past her without a word more.

Her paws carried her quickly to match his long strides. “I deserve respect.”

 

He kept his eyes ahead and marched toward the castle. “You’ve earned no respect from me.” At the doors he turned sharply on her, causing her to stop short. “In my eyes, it is you who are a thief.”

“Now that is new to me,” she barked at him. “Beast is the accusation most toss my direction.” 

“Felt that went without saying,” he snarled. The pup in his arms squirmed as the volume of their voices reached new heights.

She growled low in the back of her throat. “I expect you at your place for supper.” And with that she left. 

In her quarters, the Beast watched through stone eyes as the Hound stalked between rooms, the pup still in his embrace. He took longer than Elina had, his eyes trailed more carefully over the halls. 

Finally, he had stopped in one of the Eastern quarters. The bed was large enough for a man his size. The Beast faintly remembered the guest quarters had been made specially for one of the house that had once served her family. The Hound had closed the door and set the pup down to explore its surroundings, so different from the Godswood it had only known until now. 

The Hound had started removing his armor. He had laid it with a systematic precision on the long table in the solar. Down to only simple cloth, the Hound was still impressively large. The armor had done little to enhance his natural size. A tug in her gut made the Beast blink away from the scene. 

She moved toward the kitchens to begin reheating the stew that had gone cold earlier that day. The pup the Hound had selected was older than Elina’s Night. She cut bits of raw venison for it and poured a thick gravy over the meat. 

The Beast’s mind drifted as she mindlessly finished her tasks. The Hound was still a man, and she had not thought what that could mean for her. The possibilities she had long ago stopped hoping for, that only her dreams had brought to mind until this moment, trickled into her conscious.

The Hound could be the key to breaking her curse. She peered into the basin of water that soaked the fine china used the previous night. Her face was no less horrifying that it had been that morning, nor had it changed since that fateful day so many years before. 

The Beast recalled the hatred in the Hound’s eyes when he looked upon her the first time. Her wolves had corralled him into the throne room at her behest, when he had not bothered to knock on her weirwood doors, but kicked it in. His eyes had resembled freshly forged Valyrian steel when she confirmed she had indeed taken his sister into her custody. How could someone such as the Beast change that look in his eyes, those feelings in his soul? Especially when she had taken everything he held dear from him in the span of only a few minutes.


	6. The Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beast and the Hound endure their first meal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing belonging to the one true God: George R.R. Martin. This is not for profit, but pleasure: yours and mine. 
> 
> Shout outs to all the kind folks who are reviewing! Your thoughtful comments make me want to write more! 
> 
> Enjoy!

The Hound

Sandor showed up at supper on time. He found no excuse not to attend. Time was not a factor; sundials were found in nearly every room of the castle he had visited thus far. He suspected some had even been forged of gold. His appearance was no reason for being unable to attend. When he had returned to his rooms after more exploration, he had found fresh clothes that fit him, though certainly snug, and a freshly filled water basin. And he could not lie even to himself, Sandor was hungry. He had not expected it to take a week to find the castle, the snows had turned him around more times than he could count after he had left his mother to search for Elina. The howls of wolves he had followed had arrived from all directions, far and close. 

The dining hall’s main table could have held fifty men comfortably. But the Beast sat at one end, and she had placed his plate all the way at the opposite side. Twenty-five seats with empty plates and full sets of silverware separated them. Her back was straight as a board, and both of her clawed hands rested lightly on the white table cloth. 

"Hound," the Beast greeted with a low growl. 

Sandor grunted in response. This creature had stolen his sister, a mere child. Of course he would have given anything to save Elina from the fate of imprisonment, but it did not mean he had to respect his jailor. The Beast referred to herself as a Queen, but he saw only a feral creature, not fit for the company of men. 

The Beast did not have a goblet as he did. He had an absurdly large glass to the right of his setting. The heady scent of a deep Dornish red assaulted his nose, and he pushed it away with distaste. He'd been drunk only a handful of times, and the experiences had not left him wanting for more. The memories of his drunken father had been enough to turn him away from alcohol. The flickering light of the hearth caused the wolfwoman's teeth to glint. Sandor was even less inclined to lose his wits with such a creature lurking as the sun vanished. 

"Perhaps a gold would be more to your liking," the creature suggested. 

"A woman's drink," he scoffed, weaker than red by far, but enough to give him loose lips. He had been but a greenboy when he had learned that. 

At least the meal seemed to his liking. His plate was filled to the brim with roasted vegetables and a thick slab of venison. When he took his knife and fork to it, he found the inside pink, nearly bloody. But Sandor did not argue with his stomach as it rumbled loudly. He took a large bite and savored the flavor of rich meat, onion, and basil. His mother was fond of cooking with basil, she grew it in excess in the garden. Sandor's heart tightened again at the thought he would never taste her stew again. He did not look up from his plate once, until he had eaten the last carrot. 

Sandor noticed the Beast's plate had gone untouched, her hands remained in the same exact place as when he had arrived. 

"Was it to your liking?" she inquired.

Sandor shrugged his shoulders. "Meat is meat, vegetables are vegetables." 

"That is so, but did you enjoy it?" 

Not sure what the creature sought from him, he pushed his chair back with a loud screech on the polished stone. "I'm satisfied."   
With that, Sandor stood and strode from the room. 

The Hound had left the pup in his room, it had dozed almost immediately on the plush bed. He wondered if he'd chosen the soft creature of its litter. But then again, Sandor had not truly chosen which pup to make his own. After Elina had rode beyond the gates, he had wandered off to the castle's Godswood to cool himself under the falling snow, to find room to breathe. His heart had clenched tightly at the thought of his mother and sister alone, without him to do the heavy labor, to protect them. He had never had another purpose in his life. His family was his purpose. But now he was to rot away as a prisoner. 

Earlier, when Sandor had entered the foreboding wood to escape the Beast's gaze and unforgiving voice, his booted feet had stomped through the ice capped snow, and his chainmail clinked noisily. He had expected all creatures to scatter from such noise, but no. Not a religious man, the Hound had stopped as an enormous weirwood blocked the unwavering path he had made in his fury. The face of this particular weirwood was not pretty; in fact, it looked like the tree was grimacing at him for disturbing its peace. Just as Sandor had been about to turn and go deeper into the wood, a tuft of red fur had latched itself to his thick leather boot. The pup had growled playfully as its needle sharp teeth left their marks, and so he had lifted the small creature into his arms. He had sat heavily on a fallen tree and contented himself with petting the downy fur of the young wolf. That was where the Beast had tracked him to.

Now, Sandor strode toward the quarters he had selected. The castle had grown dark with evening, and lanterns ignited sporadically without hand or flame. He tried not to dwell on the mysticism of the prison he found himself in. Earlier, he had sworn the stone wolves moved behind him. In his rooms, the pup had curled itself into the mound of excessive pillows on the bed. Sandor found himself more convinced the soft pup had selected him for an in to the castle.

With a groan, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his boots off, tossing them across the room with more force than necessary. The roaring fire was excessive for a man of his stature, he came with his own body heat. He tugged his tunic over his head and carelessly left it on the ground. Let the Beast see how he felt about her offers. He laid back, his head engulfed by the down feather pillow. With a snarl he folded it into a stiffer cushion to his liking. The wolf pup, half asleep, had pressed itself in the space between his neck and shoulder. 

Sandor closed his eyes, ready for the day to be over. He wished this was one of his mother's fabricated fairy tales, that he would wake in the morning and this would have all been a dream. 

But the incessant knocking on the door had brought him out of his childlike reverie. 

"What?" he barked at her. He had swung the door wide and caught her furred fist in midair with his massive hand. 

The Beast huffed at him and yanked her paw from his grasp. She was forced to look up to meet his gaze, and that brought him a bit of satisfaction, knowing how royalty loved to look down upon the smallfolk. 

With her shoulders squared, she brought her lips back and exposed her exceptionally white teeth. "I did not appreciate your terseness at supper."

"Because you're so warm?" he bit back instantly, his deep voice dripped with sarcasm. 

The Beast's eyes flashed dangerously. "I've done nothing to make your stay a hardship. I care for my wolves well, and I intend to do the same for a hound." 

"It does not matter what you do, my being here is naught but a punishment," he snarled as he took a step forward, nearly pressing her snout against his bare chest. "An unjust punishment."

With a snarl that matched his own, the wolfwoman sneered. "Just say the word. I shall gladly make the exchange for your sister. I'm bereft to say her account of your lacking social skills was entirely accurate."

Sandor's breath left him for a moment. Elina had spoken of him to this creature? Exactly what did the Beast know of him? 

"There will be no exchange," the Hound rebounded. "It is late, and I wish to retire." 

"As you please, Hound." 

So close were they in their argument that the Beast's shoulder brushed his chest as she turned to leave. The Hound could feel her tattered skirts move the air around their legs with her swiftness. 

Despite the boiling anger at his entrapment, Sandor chuckled to himself lowly under his breath. The Beast did have a tail, a plume of red that swished beneath her skirts as she walked away.


	7. The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beast and Hound live in silence as tensions remain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing relating to the wonderful works of George R.R. Martin. This is pleasure, not profit!
> 
> Shout outs to those who reviewed the last chapter, thanks so much for the encouragement to trudge on in this fic!

The Beast

The Beast had not been sure what she expected when she had charged toward the Hound's door and raised her fist like a wildling. She rubbed her smarted knuckles gently. The fur had been scraped away by her assault on his door. Miniscule beads of blood rose upward from the tears. Was her skin still porcelain white beneath the red fur? She had never pondered that before. But the unexpected confrontation with the Hound's bare chest made her wonder. To be certain, he had hair on his skin, thick and dark. But he was a man, and she had been a woman.

The Beast had long ago stopped hoping to use the common tongue of men, as she settled into her wolf’s voice with such seamless ease. Over the years, she had fallen into routine with her children. She hunted with them, she swam with them, there were many nights she fell asleep amongst them in the Godswood. She loved the wolves as once she had loved her human family. But time had drawn on, and the Beast submerged even deeper into the pack life, always the Alpha. She had stopped looking at her once adored wardrobe, her fingers lost their craving for needle and thread. But part of the Beast could not forget the human part that lurked beneath the teeth and claw. She was still a Queen, her back refused to bend to hopelessness, to release her stubborn pride. 

But now that she had tasted the voice of her prior life, she loathed to give up her opportunity to use it. The Hound would eventually bend to her will, whether he realized it or not. A small part of her had hoped he would trade his sister back. Though certainly rebellious, at least the youthful Elina had been able to hold a conversation during meals, appreciated the small things she had left in her room.

With a growl, she pushed herself away from the throne and stalked into the night. Her children called out to her, the young and old alike. Once in the wood, she dropped to all four and raced through the streams of moonlight, joining the hunt. As a human, the Beast would never have entertained the thought of getting dirt beneath her nails, of tasting hot blood on her lips. But in this life she craved it, the feeling of success when she brought down a stag with the snap of her wide jaws. Tonight’s hunt was for the wolves. Her human food remained in the castle in the deep stores. She did not turn her nose at it, but to let a human see her eat would mortify her. 

The Beast crouched beneath the trees as the wolves fed. The youngest pups, still surviving on milk of their mothers, curled around her legs. She yipped a laugh as one of them pawed gently at her tail. She lifted one into her arms and brushed the velvety fur of its ears. This was the closest the Beast would find herself to having a true child. As a human, she had been chaste and remained an unwed virgin. Her monthly bloods had stopped upon the curse being placed. 

Dawn rose in hues of purple and red as the sun chased away the stars and moon. The Beast lifted her head from the great black wolf it had rested against in the night. She extracted herself from the mound of warm bodies and reveled in the brisk air of the mountain’s never ending winter. 

On two paws, she followed the well-worn paths that led to the tree she prayed to as a human. After being cursed, her mouth refused to speak the words of worship to the Old Gods. What had the Gods done for her? She had been furious after becoming the Beast. Why hadn’t her Gods protected her from her mother’s ill wishes? Or from the sorceress she had sent into her home? She could feel the familiar rage roiled low in her belly at the thought, threatening to rise through her heart and out her throat in a lamenting howl. But it did not matter now. The tree brought her comfort only in the form of dimly lit memories, and the knowledge that long ago her siblings and father had bent to their knees in the same place she did at that exact moment. That small connection to those she once loved could banish the anger she felt when she relived the pain of being changed at that very spot. 

The pool that bubbled gently with the heat of the hot springs was dark and ominous in the shadows precursory to dawn. The Beast crouched down and peered over the edge. Her blue eyes were a metallic grey in its mildly turbulent surface. Her long snout nearly brushed the water as she bent her head down in the humiliation her face brought her. Like the wolf she was, she greedily lapped up the water to quench her thirst. She could feel the warm liquid on her muzzle and wiped at it roughly, no others to view her lack of decorum. For Elina’s sake, the Beast hadn’t wanted to frighten her with her more animalistic traits. When it came to the Hound, it was a matter of pride, a resolve in her status as Queen in her castle. 

The Beast could hear the wolves stirring, a clear low howl called out to her. The majority of her person wanted to return and join them in their day, but she shook off the call and retreated back to her castle. She smiled as the oldest male of his generation loped by her side. Her pack could wait. 

She had a hound to tame.

 

Though the Hound did not speak to her, the Beast was content that he arrived for meals. A fool could figure out he preferred meat over vegetables and fruits. She barked lightly in amusement at the thought, causing the Hound to look up sharply from his supper one evening.

In the fortnight since he had arrived, The Hound’s appetite was not all the Beast had observed. 

Though she had given him his physical space, it had not stopped her from following through stone eyes or the seasoned wolf that wandered the castle on her behalf. The Hound was rarely stationary. He stalked the halls with the red pup trailing after him, training it along the way. The babe wolf had never an accident in the castle. It halted on command, came running at the short whistle he expelled from his lips. It even rolled over for the promise of bits of dried deer. 

The Hound did not approach the great black wolf that would appear at random, but gave it a respectful amount of space, as though it might attack at a moment’s notice. She knew he must have felt vulnerable, for she had slipped away his sword on the second day, fearful he might take arms against her. Curiously, he had said nothing of the missing helm or blade. 

The days passed, and she noticed that he moved carefully in his clothes, stiffly. At first, the Beast thought he feared offending her by ruining what she offered. But then she realized he was uncomfortable. Though long enough in the arms and legs, the clothes were taut against his brawn. 

The Beast had remedied that late into the night by the firelight of her quarters. She’d taken the clothes in his bureau and extra fabric from the clothes she no longer bothered to look at for her purpose. The task of ripping the seams had come easily enough. But the sewing itself was a challenge. The fine silver needle was constantly slipping through the fur of her finger tips, and her stitchery was not what it once was. She cursed to herself under her breath. And the wolf that warmed her outstretched paws perked its ears as her unsavory language resorted to growls and snarls at her ineptitude. Though she completed the task and knew the seams would not follow apart, she hoped the Hound would take no notice of the crooked stitches that marred his somewhat improved clothing. 

With the night spent in frustration, the Beast had left the finished project in front of his door before returning to her quarters in hopes to catch some sleep before she fixed breakfast.

 

The Beast woke with a start, flinging the furs from her bed in haste as she peeked out the lead glass window to find the sun nearly at its highest point. She had slept half the day away! Missed breakfast by many hours, when she had promised to care for the Hound as she did for the wolves. She had failed to keep her word. With a huff, she scrambled out the door, the black wolf in her wake. 

The smell of bacon and eggs assaulted her nose long before she reached the dining hall. She slowed her paced and entered with her usual dignity to find the Hound seated at the center of the long table. He looked up at her entrance. It was then that she saw a second plate of food directly across from him, set for another – for her. 

The Beast blinked once, twice, and then cautiously took her seat. She felt an unease at the chair without arm rests, a guest chair. She glanced at the food, briefly wondering if he had poisoned it. But her exceptional snout detected nothing from the ordinary. She glanced to the side, to find two plates upon the floor where the old and young wolf dug in greedily. 

“It’s rude to refuse a meal made for you,” the Hound rasped, cutting into her thoughts. His grey eyes flashed, perhaps in annoyance. She couldn’t be sure. 

The Beast eyed the plate warily. She hadn’t eaten in front of him before because her nature made it unseemly. She truly was a wolf in that sense. “I’ll gladly eat it…later.” 

The Hound didn’t break his gaze. “Go on, I won’t stare. Even a Beast needs to eat.” 

He said it like a challenge, and the Beast’s pride wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of disregarding that. With a growl, she picked up a piece of bacon and swallowed it hole. With a snort, the Hound nodded and returned his attention to his own plate. As promised, he did not gawk, in fact, he barely looked up. Only on occasion did he peek at her from under his heavy lids, as though to make sure she was actually eating and not only to appease him. 

Both plates were clean when the Hound rose from his seat. He whistled for his pup to come to heel. “Thank you for altering my clothes,” he acknowledged before striding from the room without looking back.


	8. The Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beast and The Hound continue to cohabitate the North Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you're still following this, thank you and my apologies! School has been overwhelming to say the least, and leaving me little time to write as I so enjoy doing. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Reviews are love!
> 
> I own nothing of George R.R. Martin. 
> 
> For pleasure, not profit.

The Hound

Though Sandor had resolved himself to having as little interaction with is gaelor as possible, he found himself watching her when she appeared from seemingly nowhere. He was always reminded that she was a predator, and a dangerous one. 

Sandor had expected his days to be long and drawn out in captivity. The stand-offs of meal times had brought disdain and anger into his chest, like a fist that would squeeze around his heat until it burst. Though it had not yet. 

The direwolf pup had given him some sense of purpose as days turned to weeks. Hours and days lengthened with the acute absence of Elina’s bright, ringing laughter, and the sing-song lilt of his mother’s voice. Sandor constantly wondered how they fared without him. Was the garden too much for Elina and his mother to handle? Had Elina started clearing away the unused kennels? Did her own wolf keep her company when he could not? The questions were ceaseless, and part of him wished he’d not remember them at all, for the deep resounding pain it brought. 

Sandor had quietly observed his captor when she chose to stray from her isolated tower beyond their now mutual meals. Her wolfish mouth ate as brutishly as the animals she called her children. He had promised not to stare, and even though he did not care about the Beast by any means, Sandor Clegane was not one to lie. 

Without a word of the common tongue, Sandor took notice of the small things she did in his favor. His portions of meat had grown and the servings of leafy greens lessened, mirrored by her own preferences. She left books at his door. And though Sandor was not an avid reader like his sister or mother, he took notice that she selected titles that might interest or be of use to him. Books on direwolves, survival, military histories, northern legends that sometimes kept him lying awake before bed at night. Her literary stores seemed endless, though hopelessly outdated. 

These offerings had not swayed his feelings toward her. He felt more and more like her wolves. Like a captured stray that she tried to make trust her with consistent meals and small comforts. But when he saw his wardrobe neatly folded at the door, part of his stony resolve became flawed with a fissure. 

The added fabric was too fine for the likes of him. She had taken care to try to match the colors of the previous fabrics. But the soft wools and sleek silks extensions at the seams had come from her own store of clothing, clothing fit for a queen. 

Sandor’s long fingers had traced the secure but uneven stitches. Briefly he thought of Elina, and the conversation he and his mother had fought over, whether sewing was a necessary task to learn. Sandor, at the age of sixteen, a man in every sense, was forced to sit on a stool beside his mother and learn how to make a proper stitch. 

“Even a soldier must be able to sew, Sandor,” she had lectured him as he sat mending his own torn clothes, some on the verge of tatters from his travels. “Whether it be his clothes or his wounds.” 

And so Elina was forced to sit and learn to sew, but only for the sake of being able to survive. She was devoted the bow and arrows. 

But when Sandor reached the dining hall with his pup that morning, there was no food, no Beast. How long had it taken her that night to mend his clothes?

By late morning, the Beast still hadn’t arrived. Sandor resolved to make something himself when the pup whined at him, pawing at his leg. He knew how to cook the basics, a soldier’s meal at camp. In the kitchens, he had never seen so many spices, lining shelves upon shelves. Nor did he know a hearth of such proportions had ever existed. A giant could cook comfortably in the North Castle. 

The meal had gone better than expected, he even escaped without being scolded by her red-hot tongue. 

A full moon had come and gone again since Sandor had cooked for them. Though they still spent their hours apart, skirting each other like nervous children, they had begun to greet each other at the meals, though conversation had yet to follow. 

The Beast’s direwolf stalked the halls with an eerie silence for a creature of his massive proportions. Occasionally it would nudge his shoulder as if it expected a pat. He didn’t trust the animal. Sandor’s direwolf grew by leaps and bounds. Though still very much a pup in its playfulness and downy soft fur, it was now the size of an adult standard wolf.

Sandor had been sitting at the great weirwood doors, lacing his leather booths with efficient tugs and knots, gently pushing his wolf away as it tried to distract him from his task. The pup loved nothing more than their hikes through the snow of the endless Godswood. 

At the sight of the Beast and her own direwolf approaching him, Sandor stood. She stepped with purpose and looked up at him as he slung his cloak around his shoulders and pulled the hood over his head. 

“Hello, Hound,” the Beast greeted. Though her voice was consistently tinged with a low growl, he had never heard her sound, dare he say it? Pleasant. 

“Afternoon,” he replied cautiously with an even tone. He let out a short whistle and the pup came to sit promptly to his right. 

The Beast opened its mouth, then shut it, as if it had something to ask and feared his response.

“Would you protest to us joining your trek?” she inquired, her hand motioning to the black creature beside her. It stood beside her without any sense of prompting. Even the wolf held himself like royalty. 

Sandor bit the inside of his cheek as he mulled over her request. “I suppose not.” He eyed her thread-bare woolen dress, “You’d be smart to grab a cloak, we oft don’t return til supper.”

The Beast let loose a short bark. “I am of the North, I think not.” 

And so they had passed the foreboding entrance of her home, his prison, and entered the Godswood. The wolves had separated their respective masters. Once in the wood, Sandor nodded at his pup, who had stood at his side looking up at him expectantly. At the small gesture, the animal had without hesitation become a streak of red darting ahead. The black wolf loped after him lazily, paws silent on new fallen snow. 

“You’re training her,” the Beast commented as the two trailed slowly after their companions. 

Sandor glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She walked with her arms crossed against her chest. Her nose was turned upward, but not in the snooty manner she used when she had her queenly airs about her. 

“She has further to go,” the Hound replied evenly. 

He noticed the Beast’s eyes kept shifting toward him as they followed the large and small tracks. “A wolf, especially a direwolf, is not a creature meant to be tamed.” The Beast’s words were sharp and the meaning pointed, but it lacked severity without her usual snarl. 

The Hound continued forward, not expecting the dip of the Earth beneath the snow. He sank to his hips and looked up sharply at the Beast’s barking amusement. She dipped low at her waist, her tail swaying beneath her skirts. The Hound made a growl of his own, until she let out another short yip, only to offer her hand to him. Furred and clawed, it was still delicate compared to his own. 

She had half pulled him up, with a greater strength than he had expected of a woman, even a wolf one. Her hands were firm over his own gloved ones, and as he glanced at their interlocked appendages, he wondered if her fur was soft, or bristly. 

“A wolf cannot be tamed,” she told him again, this time more softly, momentarily forgetting her task to help him from the drift. “But its companionship earned.” With that, she pulled him out fully, turning away as he brushed the snow from his pants and cloak. 

“Thank you,” he said shortly. 

Sandor followed her lead as she went further into the Godswood. He wondered what she had looked like as a woman, as a princess. The Stark bloodline had ended centuries ago, now more myth than history. Wolfmen, wargs, Children of the Forest, the Stark was the last of any true magic in their world. And here sat the very last of her kind. 

He felt he might understand now. At least in part. The Beast was lonely, and she had gotten herself a companion, lured in a creature to make her own. He wondered how it would feel to have nothing but animals to keep company with for hundreds of years. How little she knew of the world that existed today. 

Hesitantly, he offered his arm to the Beast. Half of him expected a sharp refusal. In the time it took him to blink, the pressure of fingers curling against his elbow replaced any thoughts he might’ve had on the matter. 

The wolves ahead and out of sight. The scuffle of pups could be heard echoing between the dense wood. 

“Have you named her?” the Beast inquired, her eyes, more blue in the sunlight that filtered around them, met his briefly.

He looked up at the sky to buy a moment. He would not dare tell her his flowery thoughts that direwolves had always fascinated him. The only great ancient creatures to still exist. To have named one of her ‘children’ could be perceived with much scorn.

“Azor Azhai,” he replied, meeting her gaze. A challenge.

“For a girl?” 

He shrugged. “The red reminded me of fire, and the prince that was promised when read in high Valyrian..”

“Could be man or woman,” she finished for him. “Clever.” 

“Thank you,” he cautioned. “And your blackened beast that roams the castle, has he a name?” 

She pulled her lips back, exposing the long rows of teeth. A smile for her sorts before she let loose a low sweet howl, the overtone was dark and her voice warbled slightly. Only a moment later and said animal emerged from the trees, silent on the snow. He fell into step with the Beast, forcing her to wedge closer to his body. 

“My children have only wolf names,” she explained as she steered him onto a narrow path, the snow encrusted shrubbery brushing against their legs. “What need have we of the common tongue?” She practically spat at the language. “Not my native voice anyway. The Old Tongue.”

Sandor paused as they approached the largest weirwood tree he had ever seen, its stern face staring at him, as though it could see every secret buried within heart. The black pool before it emitted thick steam into the frigid air. The wolves were innumerable. The elderly curled amongst each other for warmth, the strong feeding, the pups ever playing. 

Sandor only tore his eyes from the sight of the direwolves watched by the godly tree when he felt the Beast’s hand release his arm She dropped to the snow, uncaring as her skirts became saturated with the fresh white powder. 

“Until now,” the Beast said between yips to the pups, looking up at him from where she’d become surrounded by the youngest members of the pack. Azor Azhai included herself in the chaos, the only wolf of red, besides the Beast herself. “have we had a pup with a human name.”

“Until now,” he agreed hollowly, crouching beside her. The pups greeted him with the same enthusiasm, and in the moment, he felt his heart lighten. The pain of the loss of his sister and mother was forced to the back of his mind for the briefest of reprieve. 

“It’s a shame,” she whispered, mostly to herself. He looked at her sharply, but her eyes stared into the distance. Her muzzle was tucked against the warmth of a pup she’d pulled into her embrace. “That man cannot sing the wolf song.”

Sandor stopped scratching Azor’s ears at the Beast’s confession. Her sorrow was a tangible one, he could feel it try to pull him under its same dark spell.

“You’ll have to sing it for me one day,” he coughed, his large hand resumed its affectionate stroking that Azor fell asleep to. 

“Perhaps,” the Beast relented. 

For the first time, the silence that followed brought Sandor no sense of discomfort.


End file.
